Bourbon & Smokes
by Kaien Crosszeria
Summary: Modern AU. Riley Abel, policewoman, is investigating a series of murders throughout downtown New York taking place during the autumn and winter of 2012. What starts as just a job becomes more after meeting Ellie, a relative of one of the victims. Rellie (Riley x Ellie)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Some of you might wonder why I'm staring a new story when I already have one going. You have a fair point.

Now although I am enjoying the direction that Paper Cuts is headed in, I feel like I rushed the relationships. While I'm hardly the biggest fan of slow-burners, 2 chapters is too quick for the reader.

Combine that with my love of film noir, jazz and blues music, murder mysteries, Mickey Spillane, and 50's pop culture, and you've got yourself 'Bourbon and Smokes', a mid-speed murder mystery featuring Rellie (Ellie/Riley), and a murder mystery sub-plot that takes place on the dark streets of New York by night, set in the autumn/winter of 2012. Hope you enjoy.

 **Disclaimer**

I Kaien Crosszeria, do not in anyway own any aspect of the Last of Us, or the artists mentioned. The plot is my own. If a copyright holder would like me to retract their property I shall do my best to accommodate their desires. Please note that there might typographical errors.

 _Chapter 1: Burning_

Burning. That was what I felt the minute I put the tumbler to my lips. The scotch was cheap, and had a rough finish, but it did its job. I looked around me after I slammed my now empty glass back on the table.

Fat Mike's was a quiet little bar, hidden on a street a little ways off 5th Avenue. It was a dark little place, famous for its cheap liquor as opposed to its quality, along with the lack of smoking bans, which I was taking considerable advantage of.

I looked over at the bar. Fat Mike, who was standing behind the counter, fit his nickname perfectly. He was huge, further showcased by the fact that the glass in his hands was tiny.

"Hey Mike!" I called out. He looks up. "More scotch please!" I shouted. He nodded and turned round to grab the bottle.

Normally I wouldn't drink this much, but working in the murder division of the NYC really fucking sucked, specially when some psycho was going around brutalising people. And that last body… I feel like throwing up just thinking about it.

I'm snapped out of my thoughts when I hear my name called. "-iley! Riley!" I look over at the bar. Fat Mike's looking at me. "I ain't your fuckin' waiter! Come ova 'n get yer damn whiskey!" his thick New York accent permeates his sentence. I walk over to the counter, and grab the glass. "Thanks, Mike." He looks at me with mild concern. "This better be yer last glass, Riley. You don' wanna be walkin' home smashed, specially with some weirdo killin' peeple left, right 'n centre." he says quietly. I smile at him. "I know Mike." I say, "It's just… that last body at the station. This guy's a real sicko. I just needed the drink." 'or 4.' I think to myself. "I know." he said. "Just, be careful 'aight? You're my favourite custumer. Have a safe walk home." I smile my thanks, and, following a quick goodbye after grabbing my things from my booth, I walk out into the crisp October air.

Walking down Wanamaker St at night was always a treat, the neon signs standing out against the beautiful, dark back drop of the sky. All walks of life were about, as there should be on a Saturday night in downtown New York. I head toward the metro station. I catch the last train, and head home.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

My dingy little apartment in Queens was about what you could expect from a salary like mine. It was a cramped little studio apartment, on the 9th floor of my apartment building.

'I ought to really clean this place up.' I think to myself. A large canvas took up one of the walls. Unfinished and rough as it is, I never find the energy to cover it up. I head through to the kitchen and open the fridge. 'Let's see… pizza leftovers sound good.' I pull out the box and place the leftover pizza on a plate and then stick it in the microwave. I go strip down, and once it's finished heating up, I head over to my window, and eat as I look over the lights of the city. I look down at the street. I can see people down on the street, as high up as my apartment is. I see people my age, laughing, having fun. I sigh deeply.

I turn and head back into my apartment. I put on a tape, an old Woody Allen soundtrack, and grab my laptop. 'You're not lonely Riley.' I think to myself. 'After all, who needs friends, and fun, and big nights out when you've got lesbian porn?' And like that, I strum myself to the sound of old jazz and two girls moaning their hearts out. Who needs more, right? Right?

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

 _ **Ring Ring, Ring Ring, Ring Rin-**_

I lazily hit the snooze button on my phone. I got up, groaning all the way to the kitchen. 'The fuck is wrong with me? I know I hardly live healthily, but my back should not be that bad.'

I put on some coffee and go over to my bathroom to take a shower and get ready. After a quick wash, I get out and look at myself in the mirror. My black hair, hanging just below my jawline, looked slightly rough, and in need of a trim. My skin was super fucking pale, due to a mixture of Asian genes and my fucking bat lifestyle. I looked over my body. I stood at a depressing 5 foot 2, and annoyingly enough, that whole 'short and curvy' shit was complete bullshit, as evidenced by my B-cups. At least my ass was pretty nice. I sighed, and then turned back to the mirror above the sink.

After putting a minuscule amount of make-up on, I get dressed in my white dress shirt, black slacks and a sweater. No matter what, I refused to wear a skirt in any situation, and today was no exception. I went back to my kitchenette and took the pot off of my coffee maker. I poured myself a cup, made some toast, and started reading the news.

Soon enough my leaving alarm went off, and I thus headed towards the metro. Towards work. And the bodies. My skin was already crawling.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

Monday was a shitty day at any job or school, but working in a police murder department just seemed to make it worse. Combine the shitty attitudes from my co-workers, the building gathering enough dust over the weekend for it to feel just sufficiently depressing, and the fact that no one wants to look over the evidence, mainly because that requires energy, something no one has enough of on a Monday morning, and you get a massive fucking mess.

At around 12, my boss, a gruff old man named Joel Miller, calls my name.

"Riley! I have a job for you!" he shouts across the room. I walk over. He hands me a file. "I need you to break the news of the last XYZ victim to her niece. She's in that folder." Riley grinned at Joel. "Thanks for just giving her to me in a folder! You've just made my job a hundred times easier!" I quipped. He grunted out a laugh. "Well done, smartass. Read. Then ask any questions."

I opened up the folder. Inside was a profile. The picture of the woman inside looked like a thinner faced Ellen Page with coppery hair. It grew 'till just above her shoulders. 'Cute.' She read over the folder.

'Lets see… Ellen Williams… huh, she's even got the same first name as Ellen Page… She's 22, same age as me… Living in Brooklyn. Okay.'

"Where does she work?" I asked Joel. "She's a musician, so she doesn't have a set work address. We did comb through the websites of all the bands she's in though. Her next gig is with a band called the Capulet Darkjazz Ensemble at a place called Smalls Jazz Club. She's on drums. It's on 10th Street, number 183 this Friday. I want you to try to catch her there, break the news." Joel said. "Alright." I said sadly. "I'll try to catch her there."

I went back to my desk.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

Friday came round quick, and before I knew it, I was stood in front of my mirror, deciding what to wear.

'If I go in jeans and a t-shirt, I'll probably look like I didn't put any effort into it, but I don't want to overdress.' After weighing up my options, I made a decision.

'Screw it. I'll go for a mixture of the two. Jeans, a black dress shirt, and my leather jacket. If some old fart doesn't like that, They can go suck one.' I thought.

I go over to my bathroom to get ready. After a shower, some make-up, and clean teeth, I get dressed and head out towards the metro to catch a train to Greenwich Village.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

After waiting for about an hour at a Greenwich street corner, I finally got in. And boy was it a treat.

Smalls Jazz Club was a really cool place. There was a bar in the corner and a few tables dotted around. The stage was very much the star of the show. There were a few bands on before the Capulets, as I'd started to call them. They were okay, nothing too fantastic but still pretty good.

Eventually, about half an hour after I'd first arrived, the presenter came on as the previous band left. A few people came on with him, carrying saxophones and guitars.

"Now wasn't that a great performance? Please give a round of applause to Nebulous!" There was a polite smattering of claps, nothing to loud or quiet, but definitely something.

"Now, for our headliners." announced the presenter. This group, originally from Bronx, have toured the country, released their first album, and are now welcoming a new drummer after 4 years active. They have played in a variety of venues, from house parties to the fanciest clubs on Broadway. Now, without further ado, could we please welcome on the Capulet Darkjazz Ensemble!"

There was a chorus of cheers and loud claps as a number of other people came on. A percussionist stood behind a set of bongos. Two saxophonists stood near the back, as did two trumpet players. A bassist picked up his double-bass from its case, and then, a minute later, She came on. And my heart almost stopped. 'Jesus. She is fucking gorgeous.' Although she carried a set of drumsticks in her hand, she stood up by the microphone, pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. She looked back at her band memebers, who all seemed to be nodding at her. She looked back at the audience, her big green eyes giving away her anxiousness. She opened up her piece of paper, opened her mouth, and then, she spoke.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

A/N: Riley is supposed to look like Samantha Nishimura from Tomb Raider, and Ellie like adult Jodie from Beyond Two Souls. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. All reviews are appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Ellie's drum kit is almost exactly, like Jack White's drum kit with the Dead Weather, sans the bass drum design and the snareless snare drum. Look it up on Youtube, he walks you through his kit.

 **Disclaimer**

I Kaien Crosszeria, do not in anyway own any aspect of the Last of Us, or the artists mentioned. The plot is my own. If a copyright holder would like me to retract their property I shall do my best to accommodate their desires. Please note that there might typographical errors.

 _Chapter 2_

"Um, hi." Ellen said. "My name's Ellie, I play drums, and I'd like to read you guys a poem before we start the set." She took a deep breath. "It's a rewrite of a poem called 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised', by Gil Scott-Heron. Um, a lot of it's pretty outdated, but the basic idea still applies. I hope you enjoy."

Her shyness was adorable, further aided by her blush and nervous fidgeting. She unfolded the piece of paper that had been in her pocket. The percussionist started to play out a steady, driving beat. 10 minutes in, Ellie started to speak.

 _You will not be able to stay home, brother_ _  
_ _You will not be able to plug in, turn on and drop out_ _  
_ _You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and  
Skip out for beer during commercials  
Because the revolution will not be televised._

I was instantly hooked on the way that she read it, equal parts confident and meek, but with this underlying feeling of power caused by the words themselves.

 _The revolution will not be televised_

 _The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox  
In 4 parts without commercial interruption  
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon  
Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell  
General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat  
Hog maws confiscated from a Chelsea sanctuary_

 _The revolution will not be televised_

Although Ellie had been correct in her assumption that some of the lines would be outdated, what with some of the references being over 40 years old, the idea still had the same punch.

 _The revolution will be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and  
will not star Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia  
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal  
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs  
The revolution will not make you look five pounds  
Thinner, because The revolution will not be televised, Sister_

The beat seemed to intensify with every stanza, creating this sense of driving urgency and panic. My heart beat almost seemed to intensify at each drum pound, and at every little word emphasis Ellen – no, not Ellen, Ellie, - put on.

 _There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays  
Pushing that cart down the block on the dead run  
Or trying to slide that colour television into a stolen ambulance  
NBC will not predict the winner at 8:32 or the count from 29 districts_

 _The revolution will not be televised_

Blood was pounding in my ears, loud and pulsing, but there, and I ignored in favour of focusing on the woman on stage.

 _There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down  
queers in the instant replay  
There will be no pictures of young being  
Run out of Greenwich on a rail with a brand new process  
There will be no slow motion or still life of  
Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a red, black and  
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving  
For just the right occasion_

 _Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and  
Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant  
and Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with  
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because queer people  
will be in the street looking for a brighter day _

_The revolution will not be televised_

The last line before the title struck me particularly hard, and my amazement at the talent of Ellie as a reader kept growing. She pushed on.

 _There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock News  
and no pictures of hairy armed women Liberationists and  
Jackie Onassis blowing her nose  
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key  
nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash  
Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth_

 _The revolution will not be televised_

 _The revolution will not be right back after a message  
About a white tornado, white lightning, or white people  
You will not have to worry about a germ on your Bedroom  
a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl  
The revolution will not go better with Coke  
The revolution will not fight the germs that cause bad breath_

 _The revolution WILL put you in the driver's seat_

 _The revolution will not be televised_

 _WILL not be televised, WILL NOT BE TELEVISED_

 _The revolution will be no re-run people,  
The revolution will be live_

When I heard the others in the room start to clap, I jumped up, broken out of my daze, and started cheering and clapping until my hands really hurt, and my throat felt raw. Even after every other person in the room sat down I was still stood up. Ellie looked at me with what at first looked like unbelieving shock, then a huge smile of pure ecstasy. I felt the same.

Once I sat down and Ellie had given her quivering thanks, she ran back behind her drum kit. After some whispers between the band members, one of the guitarists went up to the main mic. "This one's an oldie but a goodie. Hope you enjoy."

Ellie seemed to take a deep breath before starting a drum roll, followed by trumpets. I instantly recognised the song from one of my Woody Allen film soundtracks.

Roy Goodman and His Orchestra, with Sing, Sing, Sing.

The performance felt electric. Some people, myself among them, jumped up to dance to the jumping beat. Ellie seemed to be enjoying herself, as evidenced by the massive smile on her face as she went round her huge kit.

After that came a Gil Scott-Heron song, that I later learned was called 'Is That Jazz?' The singer in particular gave an outstanding performance.

After one last cover, a rendition of the jazz standard 'Autumn Leaves', the pianist got out a keyboard and they started to play what sounded like some trippy originals.

Eventually, the bass player went up to one of the mics. "I know it isn't exactly pure jazz, but we really wanted to finish with this song, so apologies to anyone who was looking for a straight up jazz show." he said, while trying to contain what sounded like laughter.

The pianist, back on the honky-tonk piano, started on a particular chord progression that I instantly recognised. One of the trumpet players got out a harmonica, and the guitarist seemed to turn up his volume knob.

Muddy Waters was fucking classic, man.

After they finished playing 'I Got My Mojo Working', I head over to the stage. Ellie had started to pack up one of her floor toms, and, once I tapped her shoulder, she turned round. "I have to say, both the poem and the show were incredible. I couldn't get enough of it." she smiles. "Thanks. I try. What's your name?" "Riley." I reply. I extend my hand for a handshake. She takes it. "Ellie." she says.

I sit down near the stage, and I ask, "So, where you from?" "Lived in New York just about my whole life, in Lower Manhattan." she says "Though apparently my mom was from Boston. Not sure though. Orphan." she doesn't even look up from the ride she's unscrewing from its stand.

"Oh." I say, surprised. "Me too."

A silence descends, until she breaks the silence. "So, what's a cop doing here?" I look at her in shock. "How did you know?" I reply, bewildered. "Ellie looks over and smirks. "Spent just about my whole childhood running from you guys. You notice mannerisms, like the way in which you hold a mug or glass, or the size of the bags under your eyes." I chuckle at that one. "I actually needed to talk to you about something sensitive. I'd rather we talk somewhere private." Ellie seems to mull it over for a little bit, before nodding.

"Let me just finish packing my kit, and then we can head to my apartment. In Lower Manhattan. Where's your place?" she asks. "Queens." I reply. "Quite a while away then. I'll fund your ticket home." she says. I move to tell her that it's fine until she raises her hand in a silencing gesture. "Least I can do." I hesitantly nod.

We start talking about everything. How long she'd been playing drums (10 years), how long I'd been in the force (a year), my own creative pursuits in the form of painting, and several other topics. Eventually, she loads up her kit in the band's van, says goodbye to her bandmates, and then we were off towards the metro station.

 _XOXOXOXOXO_

Ellie's studio apartment, located somewhere in Lower Manhattan, near the Hotel Chelsea, was rather comely and cozy. It was certainly messy.

"Sorry about the mess. Didn't think I'd have any visitors." she said to me. "It's fine." I reply with a dismissive wave, "My place is miles worse than this." I wasn't lying. At least Ellie's kitchen wasn't filled with cheap take-away boxes.

Ellie switches the coffee machine on, and as she folds the filter paper, she asks the question I'd been dreading the whole evening. "So, what did you want to tell me?" I sigh. "Ellie, you know the murder's happening around the city?" I ask. She snorts. "Who doesn't? The Times basically have a spot on its front page for that story. Why do you ask?" I take a deep breath. "You're foster aunt, Marlene Callahan, was found dead last week. Based on the way in which she died, we think she was murdered by that same serial killer."

Ellie stops what she's doing the second she hears the name. She takes a quivering breath. After a minute, she speaks.

"How much of this conversation happened because it was your job?" she says, her tone dangerously strained. "I went to the show so I could get contact. But my reaction to the poem? Real. What's happening now? All me. My job was literally just to go to the club and tell you. After arriving at the club, everything that happened was my choice. Nothing was forced."

She seems to relax. "Good." she finally says. "Means I won't punch you in the face." she chuckles humourlessly.

A few minutes later, she has two coffee mugs and an ashtray in her hand. She puts all three down on the table. She pours me a cup, and gestures towards the milk and sugar over on her counter. I shake my head. She nods, and pours herself a cup, and then opens the cigarette pack she had in her hands. I accept her offer of one. After we've both lit up, she sits back. And then, she finally speaks.

"Riley? Can you do one thing for me?" I look up."What is it?" I reply to her question. She looks right into my eyes. "Catch this sick fuck. Catch him for me, for you, for everyone one of his victims. Catch him, and make him bleed." she takes a drag from her cigarette. I nod, still staring right in those big green eyes. "I swear." she nods. "Good." she looks at the clock and the wall and her face takes on a surprised look."Fuck, is it really twelve?! The last train left 30 minutes ago!" I look at the clock, and she was correct. Twelve a clock. "What do I do?" I whisper. Ellie looks over at me. "You'll just have to sleep on the couch. I'll dig out the second duvet. Give me a minute."

Ellie heads over to her laundry. I was equally relieved and terrified at the idea of staying over at Ellie's. Relieved because I wanted to spend more time with her, terrified because I didn't want to fuck anything up, especially when she was no doubt very sensitive. Eventually Ellie pulls out a duvet and a pillow, and hands them to me.

Hardly 5 – star, but it'll do for a night. "Thanks so much for letting me stay, Ellie. I really appreciate it." she smiles for the first time in what feels like days. "No problem Riley. I'll see you tomorrow."She strips down and climbs into bed, oblivious to my blushing face as I look at her undress.

"Night." she says. "N-Night." I reply.

I lie back and look back over the day. 'A day of balance, I guess. My outfit, half-smart, half-casual. The club, fun, but cramped, and of course, Ellie. Nervous and meek one hour, a vicious revenge-lusting girl the next. Not that I could complain. She's great."

I close my eyes, and soon enough, I feel myself drifting off, and for once, I do it instantly. That's a first in a while.

 _End Chapter._

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. All reviews are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**

I Kaien Crosszeria, do not in anyway own any aspect of the Last of Us, or the artists mentioned. The plot is my own. If a copyright holder would like me to retract their property I shall do my best to accommodate their desires. Please note that there might typographical errors.

 _Chapter 3_

I woke up in an unfamiliar room. I looked around. It was some studio apartment, near some kind of main street based on the sound of traffic running in the background. The walls were painted a soothing cream, and based on the sudden angle of whatever I was lying on, I had been sleeping on some kind of couch.

I looked around a little more after I'd sat up. My search was mostly fruitless, until I looked over at the bed, and noticed a shape lying on said bed. As quietly as I could, I stood up, and walked up to the bed. The sight of a head of copper coloured hair brought all the memories rushing back. The show at the Jazz Club, the walk back home, the minutes of tense silence following my announcement of Marlene Callahan's death, and then the subsequent conversation over coffee and cigarettes. I shudder as I think of one facet of the conversation.

" _Riley? Can you do one thing for me?" I look up."What is it?" I reply to her question. She looks right into my eyes. "Catch this sick fuck. Catch him for me, for you, for everyone one of his victims. Catch him, and make him bleed." she takes a drag from her cigarette. I nod, still staring right in those big green eyes. "I swear." she nods. "Good."_

Ellie's personality shift – understandable, yet terrifying – said a lot about her. I saw it in her eyes last night. There was a lot of pent-up rage and grief in her. And last night, like a burst water pipe, the pressure of her foster-aunt's death had clearly been too much to handle.

Almost on cue, Ellie started to shift and turn. Her eyes opened and she looked straight at me.

"Oh. Hi Riley." she said. It seemed that unlike me, Ellie didn't wake up in a haze of confusion and blank memories every morning.

"Morning." I replied. "How did you sleep?" She stretched out, and yawned. "Alright. Fell asleep a little later than usual, probably because of this crazy cop chick who showed up in the middle of the night. So rude." she smirks. I stifle a laugh and play along. "Inconsiderate. Tell me her name and I'll be sure to teach her a lesson." We both start giggling. A minute or two later, my smile drops a bit. "How are you holding up?" I ask cautiously. Her smile fades. "Jesus, I don't know. Marlene never seemed to be the kind to go out this way. She would have at least taken him out with her. Least she could do." she gave out a humourless laugh, identical to the one from last night. It sends a chill down my spine. "I'd rather not talk about it by the way." she says when she sees me open my mouth. I close it soon after.

"You got anything on today?" I ask. "Just band practice at 4. A different band this time, called Lucy Leave. Ends at 6." she replies. "Why?" "I'd like to hang out with you. I meant it when I said everything that happened after I arrived at the club was authentic. I meant it. In the eyes of the NYPD this isn't happening. Their place in this ended the minute I told you… the n-news." I stutter the last part awkwardly, still unsure of where the boundaries in terms of the whole Marlene thing were. Ellie sighs. After about two or three minutes of awkward silence, she runs over to a stack of what looks like scrap paper lying near a few drum cases. She snatches a pen off of the counter, and scribbles a few lines.

"Come back here by about 6:30. Here's my phone number in case you get lost, which to be honest seems kind of like a thing you would do." her eyes shine with mirth at the last bit in the sentence.

"Hey. I resent that! Even if I kind of agree…" I mutter the last part, but the look on Ellie's face tells me she heard every word. I almost groan out loud.

"Anyway, it's Saturday, I have the day off, and thus need to get along with life unfortunately. Until we meet again, my fairest Ellen!" my faux British accent, while terrible, serves its purpose of starting a string of quips and mild insults between us, that accent underpinning the entire procedure until we almost piss ourselves laughing.

"My dear, you have a life?! I thought you just spent your days stalking random women in jazz clubs!" she responds. I snicker, and try and keep the joke running. "I just do that in my off time!"

She laughs hysterically. "In all my time running away from cops, I've never encountered one who happens to be a total dork. It's kind of refreshing." I grin. "Good to see that I'm still full of surprises." She smiles back at me. It feels good to see that.

She gets up. "What have you got going on today then?" she asks me. "Need to pick up some new pencils, and then get something for my boss' birthday on Wednesday. That should do it I think." I reply. "What do you plan on getting them?" she asks. "Dunno. Never really talked to him. I know he's into football a bit and that's about it." I say back. "He's quite the isolationist."

Ellie's face takes on a pondering look as she gets the butter out of the fridge. "Well, like I said, band practice isn't until 4. It is..." she looks up at the clock on the wall. "11 o'clock now, which gives us 5 hours to get ready, leave, and then come back before I have to go to my practice." I look at her in confusion. "You're coming with?" I say. She shrugs. "Haven't got much else to do. That alright with you?" I nod.

"How many bands are you in anyway?" I ask teasingly. "Honestly?" she starts, "3 or 4 as a member. But I'm a session musician for a whole load more." "So what, you're famous in the New York scene? Is that why so many bands ask you to play for them?" She snorts at my, admittedly, childish and naive question. "Hardly. I just play a lot of different styles, genres. Having a versatile player is good for any band." she says. I continue. "So are drums your only instrument?" "Main instrument. Been playing drums longer than any of the others. I play some harmonica, some guitar. There are a few novelty and ethnic instruments I play, butt most are percussive, so I don't know if they count apart from drums." she answers. I finish my breakfast, and take my plate over to the kitchen sink.

"So, how am I supposed to get ready? I haven't got any toiletries here." I ask as I wash up. "I need to go out to get more milk. I can get a toothbrush and anything else you need while I'm out. Just write them down, give me the list and I'll try and get a hold of them." she says.

After I finish cleaning, I head over to Ellie's massive pile of scrap paper. I shuffle through the pile of newspapers, old notices, advertisements and sex line number slips, until I find a blank piece. I take it out, grab a pen from the pen cup in the corner and I start writing.

I only needed a few things. A toothbrush, some mouthwash, and some painkillers. I really ought to get my back checked. Anyway, I take my list and head over to Ellie, who seemed to be losing a war against her own hair.

"Stay down, motherfucker! Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with you today?" she says while staring indignantly at a stray strand of her own hair that had made its way onto her face.

"Do you usually have arguments with your own hair?" I snicker. Her glare turns from her fringe to me. "Only when weirdos hang around my apartment." she replies in monotone. "You really gonna keep that going?" I smirk. She sighs. "Just give me the damn list." she replies. I hand her the scrap of paper. She looks over it. "What the hell do you need painkillers for?" she says. "Back pain." I reply. "Been having it for the last few weeks." she looks at me oddly. "You should see somebody about that." she replies. I shrug it off. "It's not too bad. Nothing some pills won't fix." the look on her face says otherwise.

"After we get your pencils and your boss' gift, I'm checking you into a doctor's. Ah, ah! No ifs, no buts, We're doing it." I try and stare her down. A minute later, I realise that I've lost this battle of will.

"Can I at least ask why?" I say. I notice her grip on my list tightening. I sigh at the sight, turn round, thinking I've lost this thread as well before I hear her speak.

"When I was in an orphanage further up-state, there was this guy who just about showed me the most care and affection I had received up until that point. He let me ride his horses, fed me when the matrons wouldn't, and gave me warm clothes the first winter I was there. He would constantly complain about stomach pains, but every time I told him to get it checked, he laughed it off as indigestion and would just swallow a tablet." Although her voice had been trembling when she had started to speak, tears were now freely falling from her shadowed face.

"One day during early spring, he doubled over. I ran to his neighbour's house, begging for an ambulance. Once he came out of hospital he revealed to me that he had stage 4 stomach cancer. Fatal. All because the idiot wouldn't get it checked." she finished.

She looked at me her face glistening. I soon realise my own had followed suit. "His name was Winston. I know that it probably isn't as serious as that, but ever since then, I constantly push the people in my life to check chronic pains, no matter the size, just so I can try and avoid another Winston situation."

She suddenly collapses into my arms, sobbing into my chest.

"Sh, sh, don't worry." I say, my voice just as hoarse. "I'll get it checked when we're out." she looks back up at me.

"P-promise?" she says hopefully.

"Promise." I reply quietly.

 _End Chapter_

A/N: Sorry if the chapter seems slow or short. I wanted to focus on the characterisation of Ellie, and an active, "out and about" chapter probably wouldn't do it for me in that regard. Hope you enjoyed. All reviews are appreciated.


End file.
